


Juxtaposition Miasma Thesis

by MorteMistrata



Series: My Star Trek Tropes [1]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Handcuffed Together, Into the Wilderness - Freeform, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:48:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24033793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorteMistrata/pseuds/MorteMistrata
Summary: After a diplomatic meeting gone wrong, Spock and McCoy are left chained together and lost in the wilderness of an unfamiliar planet. With every passing second lessening their chances of being found, they must manage to survive together, or risk never going home. Seems pretty straightforward, until their obtrusive feelings get in the way.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Series: My Star Trek Tropes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733722
Comments: 9
Kudos: 34
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Juxtaposition Miasma Thesis

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo, so, my plan for my next Star Trek fic was a wild west au, but uh,,, my muse doesn't like to cooperate. Besides, I signed up for that fandom trumps hate thing, and this was what my bidder asked for, so uh,, enjoy this as my next multichapter story.

In the midst of things, it’s very difficult to remember everything one might need after the emergency has passed. Quite often, McCoy has been an unwilling participant in some scheme which inevitably ends in someone (usually Jim or Spock, but occasionally McCoy himself) being hurt, and so he’s remembered to keep medical supplies on him at all times. Even during diplomatic dinners, where carrying a medical bag and tricorder might be seen as rude, he keeps a hypospray or two tucked into his pocket or in his boots. But for this, well, McCoy is unsure how he could’ve prepared for it, besides taking up a hobby in pickpocketing or other criminal-esque activities?

  


Spock peeks his head around the corner of a thatched hut, dragging McCoy, handcuffed to his right wrist and thoroughly out of breath from their escape. The scent of the dank cell they’d been dragged to sticks to McCoy’s dress uniform. Despite once gleaming, a perfect example of Starfleet dress code, it currently feels more like a baby blue target than a model uniform in contrast with the dark browns and muted greens of Al-chithiya. 

  


McCoy finishes tearing off a strip of cloth from the bottom of his dress shirt, and sticks in between the metal of the cuff and his already sore skin. He begins to tear another for Spock as his companion works at disabling the camera in the corner of the alley. 

  


What an odd combination of modern technology and old fashioned traditions. With a collection of major cities built with cameras, AI, and basic spacefaring technology, interspersed with great fields of wheat and large uninhabited lands, it was certainly different in comparison to the usual strict dictomoty of rural, village dwellers and those with a similar society to their own. It was unfortunate how all of that came together during their peace talks. 

  


“Is it clear?” McCoy whispers as Spock drops his hands from the wiring. He doubts anyone could hear him even if he talked at full volume. A broadcast has been going on for the past half hour detailing their appearance and apparent crimes, interspersed with sirens every so often just to spice it up, but he prefers to err on the side of caution. A side effect of dealing with Jim’s risk taking nature. 

  


“I do not have a clear view of the entire street. I believe that there is a high chance of citizens on alert within the buildings, or patrols in alleyways, and therefore, out of sight.” Spock replies, holding his arm out for McCoy to adjust the cloth just as he’d done to his own. His skin is a few degrees cooler than the chilled summer night air, but not unpleasantly so. McCoy is careful not to let his touch linger for too long as he fingers the cuff a final time, looking for a weakness in the thick metal band. 

  


Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t find one. 

  


“Are there guns pointed in our direction?” McCoy asks, stepping back as far as the chain length allows. Which is not far at all.

  


“No.” Spock says, his voice only slightly louder than McCoy’s.

  


“Then, it’s clear enough.”

  


McCoy takes a step forward, ready to lead them both across the street and into the wilderness which begins in earnest beyond the next row of houses. With the patrols currently monitoring the city, searching for the various Starfleet officers who had managed to escape the trap banquet, staying in the city is not an option. Despite knowing little of Al-chithiya except for the vaguest notions of its medical culture, he’d prefer to take their chances out there than in an interrogation cell. 

  


Spock seems to favor the same as he creeps out a little further, his movements decidedly feline as he gracefully slips out onto the street. McCoy has recovered from their last extended jaunt, which didn’t seem to faze Spock in the slightest, and his heart is still pounding from the adrenaline of it all. 

  


“I’m not getting any younger here, Spock.” He says, pulling his collar away from his neck. The already stained fabric rips slightly under the pull. McCoy doesn’t have it in him to feel bad about it. “Let’s go.”

  


“The chances of getting caught by the Royal Guard lower by sixty-two point six percent with a three percent increase with each mile that we put between us and the city, however,” Spock hesitates, in that quiet way of his that anyone who didn’t know what to look for wouldn’t notice. McCoy notices. He notices a lot of the little things that reveal just how much of an act Spock puts on, but certainly not enough to make him less of an enigma. “It also lessens our chances for retrieval by forty-nine point seven percent, with a two point eight percent exponential increase every day that we remain outside of the city.”

  


McCoy pauses, considers. The dinner had been going fine, he’d thought, until one of the royal surgeons had said something distinctly out of place in a discussion on trauma therapy. 

  


_ ‘I’ve found that even with accelerated bone focused healing technologies, it’s better to leave at least some of it to natural healing. Gives a little elasticity to it, and lowers the levels of cellular growth rejection in further therapies.’ McCoy had said. It was a technique he’d decided to use after reviewing Spock’s medical files, which were woefully focused not on his actual health, but on the marvel of his survival as a hybrid. It worked well though, and he’d decided to use it on most injuries after seeing how effective it was.  _

  


_ ‘It lowers lasting effects, does it?’ Minister Shey’lah had said, steepling her fingers. A waiter came by on silent feet, switching out her empty plate for one filled with pastries. ‘It would do well to preserve subject usefulness and productivity. Does this half-healing work with other injuries? Does it leave residual pain?’ _

  


_ ‘I’ve never tried it on other injuries. On the Enterprise, the most common injuries are burns and broken bones. Anything else is treated case by case.’ _

  


_ ‘And the pain?’ The Minister prodded.  _

  


_ McCoy hesitated. ‘Well, it does leave some soreness, yes. But that’s a small price to pay for better healing in the future.’ _

  


_ The Minister wrapped a long fingered hand around the wrist of the waiter, just about to leave, and surveyed him coolly. The waiter was of light skin tone, a pale blue to the Minister’s midnight hue, and the scar running beneath his sleeve was clear against it. He winced, though his eyes remained dull as the Minister splayed his fingers for McCoy to see. On the ends of his fingers, where the last digit and fingernail usually went, the skin was mottles and swollen. On some, the entire thing was gone, while in other places, just the nail was torn or missing completely. Despite the sharp angle that the Minister held his hand, the waiter’s hand hardly curved. Loss of sensation or movement, McCoy understood even at first glance.  _

  


_ ‘Would you find these injuries sufficient for a preliminary test of alternative healing procedures?’ _

  


_ The woman was so cool, so collected. It was as if the injuries did not faze her at all. _

  


_ ‘I-’ McCoy hesitated. ‘I suppose. Though fresh wounds would be better.’ _

  


_ But the woman only smiled, releasing the waiter’s hand like a claw game dropping it’s prize. ‘Then we’ll have to wait for fresh wounds to arise.’ _

  


It’s clear, just from that conversation, that staying and potentially being captured is not an option. 

  


“I’d rather take our options out there than in here.” McCoy says, voice sure and firm. The handcuffs linking them together clink as McCoy steps forward. 

  


Spock glances back, at him, dark eyes searching, and then back to the darkened wood. In the moonlight, it’s hard to make out anything beyond the vague shape of the trees, and the dark shadows of the houses in front of them. 

  


“Noted.” He says, and then, carefully, ever so carefully, he creeps forward another foot, another, and then together, they run, in what must look like a streak of color and paleness to anyone else, into the greenery. 


End file.
